


Come On, Baby, Spill Your Guts

by kayliemalinza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bisexuality, Coming Out, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Sub!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 11:23:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayliemalinza/pseuds/kayliemalinza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jo likes to make Dean admit things.</p><p>Teaser: Dean sputters. She moves his beer out of the way and straddles his lap because she likes to pretend she's cute before she shivs someone. Dean sets his legs right, feet flat on the floor. His hands float over his knees, her ribcage, and then the tabletop because they're less likely to get kicked out if his hands are in full view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come On, Baby, Spill Your Guts

Jo likes to make Dean admit things. The confessions start out harmless, like that he unironically enjoys REO Speedwagon and he thinks her hair is pretty. After they've been hunting together for a while, she gets sharp about it. She drags out of him that he is scared of flying, her mom, zipties (they're nearly impossible to get out of and they can slice your skin right open,) and Sammy dying. That one's a gimme and unfair, so when they stop for the day she gets him a beer with extra sashay and kisses his temple when he isn't paying attention. 

It's easier than they thought it would be—has always been easier—to slip into Sharing and Caring while spinning wheels down some interstate or another, Dean _safe_ , Dean _home_ , with Baby soaking up the sweat of his palms and Jo cross-legged on the bench seat because she's tiny and limber like that.

(Dean dreams one night that he looks over to the passenger side at Sam and Sam smiles back and then his mouth unzips like a duffel bag and his skin falls off and there are two Jos in his place, one sitting on top of the other, with their limbs all stretched out like noodles, and they both reach out an arm, elbows knocking together with a sound like a spoon inside a coffee cup, and ten fingers reach down, and both of her are smiling, and Sam's empty skin rustles on the seat—Dean dreams some weird crap. He can't call them all nightmares; if there ain't blood, it's a win.)

So it's easy, you know, to tell the edges of stories that he usually avoids, to shave a little closer to the truth, to leave out fewer details (Rhonda Hurley's name comes up, but nothing more than that—there are some things he would never tell another living soul.) It gets to where Dean doesn't even have to be in the driver's seat to spill his guts. Jo pulls this crap out of him in the middle of a crowded bar. Granted, it's a bar they'll never see again, with people who don't know they're anyone, who don't bother to eavesdrop or even look. Dean and Jo look; they're never off the clock. 

Tonight, Jo gets a little too paranoid about some honest-to-God cowboy with mud splattered halfway up his calves and caked into the seam of his boots.

"Should I hand you the holy water, or do you wanna skip right to the coconut oil?" Dean asks. He maybe drawls a bit. No reason.

"Shut up," says Jo, and elbows him. Her eyes are dark from the shadows. Not black, just warm, tapered like a knife point when she glares at him sideways. "I'm just window shopping, you know that." It's the first and closest thing they've ever come to a declaration of commitment and it moseys right past them because they're default soulmates, you know, sharing a car and a hunt, and their skulls are kind of thick. Jo distracts him immediately anyway: "Don't tell me you weren't checking out his ass, too."

Dean sputters. She moves his beer out of the way and straddles his lap because she likes to pretend she's cute before she shivs someone. Dean sets his legs right, feet flat on the floor. His hands float over his knees, her ribcage, and then the tabletop because they're less likely to get kicked out if his hands are in full view.

Jo leans back and rests her elbows on the table, knees tucked casually against his waist. "I'm sure you have all kinds of issues with this, and we can go poking them with a stick if you want, but honestly? I'd rather skip through all that. We could be having a lot more fun. So say it."

"Jo, I'm not—"

She jostles him with a knee. "It doesn't have to be true. I'm not gonna go tattle on you to your dumbass macho friends. I just wanna hear you say it. Come on, Dean," she says, and bats her fucking eyelashes. "It'll get me hot." It's a pitch-perfect imitation of Dean's third-favorite porn star, the one who tends to shove her partners around.

Dean wonders if he can get away with muttering _Christo_ or if Jo would punch him in the neck. "S-say what?" he says. Since when does he fucking stutter?

Jo narrows her eyes and widens her mouth. She's thinking. "Oh, anything in the ballpark of not being one hundred percent straight."

Dean ponders that for a second, then smiles real slow. "Honey, I just love your shoes," he says.

"Bullshit," snaps Jo, and snakes a hand forward to flick his ear.

"Ow!" Dean yelps, but keeps his hands flat on the tabletop.

Jo shimmies herself comfortable again, hammocked across his thighs. Her belt buckle flashes. "You know what I mean," she says. "Say something else. Like... Dr. Sexy. Do you think he's sexy, Dean?"

"It's in the damn name," says Dean. Jo raises an eyebrow, so he takes a deep breath—a whiff of beer and something acrid from the doorway, laundry detergent, Jo's cinnamon chapstick—and he mutters, "He's sexy."

Jo flops his belly around with her telekinetic smile. "Would you let him do you?"

"Come on, I said your stupid thing!" Dean whines.

"Yes or no," says Jo, and digs her knees into his waist.

Dean shoots a glance around the bar. The bartender's shaking out peanuts from a plastic bag. Mr. Cowboy and a frizzy blonde are making out by the jukebox. Some college kid has a cue stick jacked all the way up in his armpit because he learned to shoot pool from movies. Nobody's looking at them. Nobody's standing within ten feet.

Dean ducks his head. "Yeah, whatever," he mumbles. "Sure." He keeps his gaze down, not moving a muscle, wrists pressed against the edge of the table so hard his hands might go numb.

A beer bottle clunks down. Jo wipes her bottle-wet palm against her jeans and then leans forward, slides up, drapes close and hot against Dean and wraps her arms around his neck. She breathes against the corner of his lips.

"Good boy," she says.


End file.
